The Simple Life
by TheMasterMoriarty
Summary: John is an eighteenth-century village doctor, searching for excitement in his simple, pretty life. Sherlock is a twenty-first century nothing, desperate for another case to solve and some some free form of rent. A Johnlock AU that will literally change history.
1. Part One

**Disclaimer****: **This AU is loosely based off of M. Night Shyamalan's 'The Village'. Although you don't need to know the storyline of the movie to follow this fic, please understand that I do not own certain ideas and themes that are written in this fanfiction. To know which ones, I recommend watching the movie itself. Or not, up to you. I can't list the ideas and themes that I've used because that would be spoilers, but here's the IMBD link: /title/tt0368447/ and there you can find the synopsis of The Village and recognise who owns the material.**  
**

The characters, however, are owned by the BBC's adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, 'Sherlock'.

Please understand this is an AU (alternative universe) and therefore some characters may seem OOC.

* * *

_I: Let the bad color not be seen. It attracts them. _

_II: Never enter the woods. That is where they wait. _

_III: Heed the warning bell, for they are coming._

_- The Village  
_

* * *

1882. Or at least, that's where this all started.

I've never been good at describing events, nor writing stories. My strong point was always swimming, but I guess we all know what happened there. And before I introduce myself formally I'd like to tell you why I'm here, because the story I'm about to tell you is a story that needs to be told. Would it be too cheesy to explain that this story is one that defies the laws of love? Or changed history? Maybe. I'll let you make your own assumptions there. The two people I'd like to talk to you about today are John and Sherlock. One, a village doctor from 1882. He wears a waistcoat, pocket watch, has a sister called Harrieta and owns a little cottage on the corner of the village cabbage plot.

The other was Sherlock. A few years younger than John, Sherlock was a nothing. A modern-day man living around the streets of twenty-first century New York - squatting in a friend's spare apartment because he couldn't afford a rent. He had a brother, but he was rarely of any importance.

The story of how these two met, and the events that followed, is the story I feel I should share with you today.

Now, let me introduce myself. My name is Carl, Carl Powers. I was a champion junior swimmer, trained five days a week. I died, and death was boring, so I watched. I watched from above as these two completely different lonely souls clumsily fell upon each other. Two different lives from two supposedly different eras - merged. Another case to pass the time for Sherlock, and a rush to save a life for John. This is where it all began...

* * *

"Sherlock, will you _please_ stop leaving all these mugs around my apartment!" A shrill voice sounded, followed by the clinking of mugs. "You just waltz in here with your endless cups of tea and your scarfs and your silly experiments..." She trailed off, pausing at the door to give Sherlock a disapproving look. Mrs Hudson sighed, "You need a job, Sherlock. I can't look after you forever."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, kicking his feet up on the sofa and sliding his laptop closer on his lap. He stared intently at the screen, waving a hand in her direction. "Yes, of course... Make me some tea."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock grimaced. "..._Please_."

She sighed. "Just this once, Sherlock." She warned, trotting back into the kitchen. "I'm not your house keeper!" She sang, hoping to remind Sherlock some-what. Sherlock grunted, focusing on the words of his screen. A case. Brilliant. It wasn't extraordinarily interesting, but considering the recent cases of kind-of-missing children and the mystery of the missing cat, Velcro, it was a definite step up. A murder. A real, gripping murder that Sherlock could get his hands on; That is, if the local police force didn't beat him to it. "Mrs Hudson, cancel that tea. I have a case!" He yelled, grinning as he jumped up from the sofa, his dressing-gown sloping over his long limbs. He quickly shut his laptop, discarding it on the sofa and strolling into the next room. He appeared a moment later, fiddling with his top button and tucking in the stray ends of his purple shirt.

"I hope someone isn't hurt, Sherlock. You really shouldn't get so excited over someone else's misery..." Mrs Hudson tutted, trotting back into the living space. She placed her mug of tea down, walking over to Sherlock with a tut. "What am I going to do with you?" She sighed, doing up Sherlock's top button and straitening his shirt. Sherlock pouted, "It's just a case."

"It's not your case, Sherlock. Leave it to the police..." She complained, tapping his cheek before returning to her mug of tea.

"I can't leave it to the _police_, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock protested, a look of disgust on his face. "They're idiots. Especially that Anderson..." He grumbled. "Anyway, it's _my_ case. I found it first!" Sherlock frowned childishly, pulling on his coat.

"Yes, yes. Do as you must, just clean up those experiments when you get back-"

"Bye!" Sherlock yelled, quickly strolling out the door whilst throwing on his scarf.

* * *

"Doctor Watson?" A shy voice called, the shadow of a small girl leaning against the door frame appeared, blocking off the sunlight that streamed in through the open door.

John quickly turned, hugging his papers to his chest. "Just a moment!" He yelled, taking another swig of tea from his saucer and placing it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, swallowed and sighed. Throwing on his jacket with his one free arm, he walked through to the kitchen. "Hello." He greeted with a smile, dumping the papers on his make-shift desk. "Can I help?" The small girl returned the smile, "It's my father, I was wondering if you could take a look at him? He has a cold." John nodded, and with that the two of them stepped out into the morning sun and made their way over to the Milton's family farm.

That's how many of John's days played out. Being a doctor in the eighteenth century was far from the life-style of a twenty-first century doctor. There were no qualifications needed for such a small village, no surgeries to work in and no one to help guide him of his diagnosis. He was just the doctor. The life he had held little interest to him, and unlike most people who would do anything to venture out into the world, all John wanted in life was to live it simply. No fuss, no danger, just a simple routine and a cup of tea.

But the village was far from any ordinary village.

It was called Shipton Downs, and was placed literally in the middle of no-where. A tiny village surrounded by a large forest that no body dared venture into. At most the population was around one-hundred people, only a quarter of which were children, and the others were made up of Villagers and Elders. The Elders were essentially the village council who spent the rest of their common lives directing the younger generation on what to do, so that when they live on and pass, the Villagers may become the Elders and the circle will become endless. Everything the village owned and used was produced inside the village, whether that be crops from your fields or clothes from Margret – the village tailor. The Elders decided it all.

Their main job as the Elders of the Shipton Downs?

Protecting the village from 'Those We Do Not Speak Of'.

The merciless monsters that live in amongst the trees, surrounding the village. Killers. Giant red-cloaked figures with hunch-backs and scorched, bloody skin. A mix between animal and monster. They'd only be sighted a number of times by the villagers, but the treaty meant that they may not trespass into the village, if the villagers did not venture into their woods. It'd been a while since that treaty was last broken. And not my the humans.

"John, there's been an accident." Harrieta panted, suddenly running into the open doorway of John's cottage. She doubled over, clutching her stomach in an attempt to catch her breath.

"What do you mean?" John mumbled, still scanning over his documents.

"Will you please just put those stupid notes down and listen!" She screeched, nostrils flaring. John immediately looked up with concern.

"Harry?" He asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "You're shaking." He stated.

"John, there's been a terrible accident…" She repeated, swallowing hard. "It's one of the children, Lucy her name is. She was working on the mill and got caught in the machinery. Oh _God_, John, she's a mess!" She cried, tears rolling down her cheeks. "And so young too!" She cried.

John stood up, quickly walking around the table to pull on his coat. "Where is she?"

"You can't help her John, it's not fixable-"

"Then why are you here?" John growled, anxious to help.

"I didn't know what else to do, none of us do!" She panicked, "Father told me to go see you, he said you were the only one who could help her. He said to go get you… God, John… She's all-"

"Where's father?"

"He's with the sheriff."

"Lestrade?"

"Who else!"

John shut his eyes, placing a hand to the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. "Right… I'll find him. You stay here, make yourself some tea. I can't have you running around like that, causing people more stress." He declared, turning to pull on a jumper. He quickly left the cottage without another word, closing the door behind him.

* * *

"Father?" John knocked twice, opening the door to the Sheriff's cottage cautiously. The door squeaked, and John had to swallow hard to stay composed. "Lestrade?"

"In here!" Came the returned voice. John walked through to the front room.

"Sheriff?"

"Whatever it is, it's not my problem." He grumbled, John finally appearing at the door of the living room. Sheriff Lestrade was slumped in an armchair, his legs laid out in front of him, leaning on a wooden box. He took another large bite of his turkey sandwich. "Not my problem!" He repeated, louder this time, not even looking John's way.

John sighed, glaring. "There's a little girls' life in danger here, would you just please-!" He cut off, taking a deep breath. "Where's my father? Harrieta said he'd be here." He growled.

"He just left for Dara's farm…" The sheriff mumbled in return, eying John nervously. "What's happened?"

"Not your problem!" John called, quickly running back out the door.

* * *

Dara's farm was basically the center of the village. On lonely days when the sky was grey and everyone was out doing their own thing, I'd sit and watch Dara's farm from the sky. Many of the villagers worked there, and many Elders spent their days relaxing there. It was more of a self-business for everyone then a farm, as everyone worked on their own crops and meat that they'd later take home to their patient families for a Sunday-night roast.

John's father was one of those villagers.

"Father!" John called, walking around the side of the farm-house. He appeared in the orchard, and had to wind his way through the tree's to follow his father's voice directly. "Father, we need your assistance!"

"John?" Suddenly appearing in front of John, his father popped his head around one of the orange tree's, a basket full of fruit hanging on his arm. He had a piece of straw poking out of his mouth, chewing on it absent-mindedly. "Son?"

John stared wide-eyed. "Father, something awful has happened. This is an emergency – and you're out here picking oranges?" He raged, growing angry.

"There's nothing we can do about Lucy-"

"There's everything we can do!" He yelled, "This is a bloody young girl's life we're talking about!"

His father sighed, placing down the basket and putting a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "We need medication we don't have, John…"

"Then lets get it!" John protested, narrowing his eyes.

"That would mean getting it from somewhere else."

The orchard fell into an unearthly silence. Surrounding villagers turned and stared, their hands stuck in mid-air. "What are you talking about?" John breathed.

His father offered a sheepish smile, "To get the medication to save Lucy's life, we need to find it from somewhere else…" He sighed, "Follow me."

John hesitated, but followed as his father discarded his basket of oranges on the ground and made his way through the orchard and back towards the farm-house. He walked in, the silence that had settled in the house quickly disturbed, and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. He sat down, "Close the door."

John noted the tone, closing the door in silence. He leaned against the stove, crossed his arms and waited for his father to start talking. He did.

"Lucy can't be saved on a mixture of oils and vinegar, John. She needs real medication, not herbal remedies. Her head is severely split open, she has cracked ribs and torn ligaments galore." John cringed. "Her face is all cut up beyond repair…"

"Then surely there's nothing we can do?" John protested.

"Wrong." His father stated, placing his hands down on the table. "John, what I'm about to tell you, you can't repeat it to anyone."

John breathed a laugh, "You can't be serious?" He smiled, "This whole thing is ridiculous! Are you playing me as a fool?" He asked, shaking his head.

"John." His father warned. John's smile quickly faded.

"Listen to me, you can't ever tell anyone, John. The future of the village relies on that…" His father gave him a pleading look, and John swallowed hard. He nodded once, not quite sure what he was agreeing to. "You must understand John that we did this to help protect our children, all us Elders. We wanted to make sure you all grew up in a safe and protected environment, without being tainted by the world's -" He paused, sighing. There was a moment of silence. "My father was murdered when I was a boy." He announced.

John furrowed his eyebrows. "By _them_?" He asked quietly, looking out over the forest from the kitchen window. He brought his gaze back to his father, who shook his head.

"By town folk."

"Who?"

"Town folk." He grumbled, "They're the people who lived in the city, like myself. He was walking to work, his things were stolen and he was stabbed several times with a kitchen knife." His father shifted uncomfortably, John simply stared.

"You mean to tell me that you came from a different village called City?" John mumbled, confused. "Well that's ridiculous." He declared, "You'd of had to cross the forest to get to this village. You'd of never survived Those We Do Not Speak Of."

"There was no Shipton Down's back then, John. Do you honestly believe we're the only humans on this earth? That there's nothing else out there?" His father snapped. John shut his mouth,

"Of course now, there are other villages…" John began.

"There are more than other villages, there's other countries and a whole world!"

"What the hell do you want me to do about that?" John snapped, glaring. "What the bloody hell has any of this got to do about that little girl? So there are other villages, brilliant! If you haven't noticed, we can't get to any of them. If we break the treaty then we'd all be killed."

"Wrong."

"Stop telling me that I'm wrong!" John yelled.

"John, calm down. You're not helping the situation. This is all linked by what I'm about to tell you, what you mustn't tell anyone, but to understand you have to _listen_." John's father waited for an approval before continuing, "I arrived in this village when I was around thirty, when you were tiny and after your mother had died. We came from the city, which wasn't the name of another village. The city was huge, John. It was full of people and buildings and-"

"Buildings?"

"They're like giant houses, made of brick and cement. Skyscrapers."

"Skysc-"

"Just let me finish." He sighed, "After my brother was murdered, I met Linda from the Milton family. Her sister had been raped and left to die in an alleyway." He caught a sight of John's confused expression, "An alleyway is like a gap between two buildings, they're dark." He continued on, "Then we met other Elders, all of whom had had precious family and friends cruelly murdered in cold blood and stolen from them. My point here is, John, that the world we lived in was cruel and merciless. We all agreed we wanted a new life, a pure life, so we left the city and we came here. We found a gap in the woods - a small patch of grass with around two or three fields, and we built a new civilization. Shipton Downs."

John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"John, we couldn't have our children growing up there, it was horrific. So we made this village, and we made it well." He smiled, "And it was perfect, and our children were safe, and little Harrieta loved it so much…"

"So we all came from this 'City'?" John asked.

"It still exists just outside the forest."

"But what about Those We Do Not Speak Of?" John exclaimed, taking a step forward. "They kill, we've all seen it. They wouldn't of just let you through!"

"We made them too."

The room fell silent.

"What?" John asked, placing a hand to the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "You _made_ them?"

"They're costumes, Margret made them." His father admitted, biting down on his lip as he eyed his son cautiously.

"You can't just make a killer!" John protested, "They've killed people! Last year, that small boy, they _ate_ him-"

"The boy died of natural causes, we used his death to create the story. He was buried here at Dara's." His father stated, "Those We Do Not Speak Of do not exist, John. The forest is empty, they're just a story and a costume. We needed them to make sure you children wouldn't ever venture out of the village."

"We've lived our whole bloody lives in fear!" John yelled, throwing his hands up.

"Will you keep your voice down!" His father hissed. "It had to be done."

"What year is this?" John mumbled, eyes closed again, hand gripping the bridge of his nose.

"What? John I-"

"What year is this?" He repeated through gritted teeth.

John's father hesitated. "…It's 2012."

John said nothing, his father continued. "I need you to go through he forest, tell the villagers that we've spoken to Those We Do Not Speak Of. Tell them we've bargained with them. I need you to go through the forest and out through the other side, from there I'll give you directions into the city…"

"Why me?"

His father smiled some-what, "You're the doctor, John." He stated, "You're the only one who can save the girl's life."

"What if I'm murdered?"

His father frowned, "As soon as you get to the city, find the nicest looking person you can find. Latch onto them, give them the list of medication you need, tell them that a little girl's life is in danger."

"And if they don't believe me?" John countered.

"Then they're not worth it. Find someone willing to help, John. Stay with them, and return when you can. In the mean time, we'll do whatever we can to keep the girl alive with what we have."

The room fell into silence, and John's head was swimming. "I never thought I'd time travel." He tried to joke, mumbling nervously.

His father cracked a smile.

John sighed, another moment of silence followed. "...I'll do it."

* * *

"Wrong."

"I'm not wrong-" Anderson protested, frowning.

"You're wrong, and you're getting in my way." Sherlock snapped, glaring. He rolled his eyes, pulling his coat tighter around him. "_Obviously_, it was self-inflicted. The man had debt of over three-hundred thousand pounds for God's sakes, and the bank refused a loan. He has three children, one attending a frankly pretty pricey private school, and a wife who demands gifts and jewelry over a kiss on the cheek from her husband." He crouched down, whipping out a magnifying glass and pressing it up to the scratch wound of the victim's throat. "Suicide." He declared, yawning.

"Why would he commit suicide if he loved his wife?" Anderson replied, glaring.

"Oh, you're still here?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "_Obviously_, he didn't love her." Sherlock announced. "Of course he loved his children, but it's blatantly obvious that if he told his wife about his ridiculous amount of debt, she'd leave him and take the children with her; And let's face it – what father who's knee deep in dept, with no home to stay in, would be provided with joint-custardy of his beloved children?"

Sherlock jumped up, rolling his eyes again. "Get real, it was suicide. He got his friend to cut his throat for him and stage it as murder."

"But who would-" Anderson interjected.

"This man would." Sherlock concluded, pulling off his rubber gloves. He threw them into Anderson's face. "Tell your chief inspector that the case is closed. Arrest Mike Rodgers on the basis of assisted suicide and suspected man slaughter." Sherlock turned, smiled at the detectives, and began to walk across the crime scene with his hands tucked into his pockets and his coat collar hugging his long neck. "Until next time, gentlemen!" He called, ducking under the yellow tape to make his exit.

"Wait!" The female inspector called, who had been watching from afar with an unmistakable sneer. "Who are you?"

Sherlock paused, smirking. He turned slowly, his face only barely recognizable against the dark street that stretched behind. "The name is Sherlock." He announced, "Sherlock Holmes." And with that, the detective disappeared into the darkness.


	2. Part Two

John grimaced, working his way through endless trees and twigs and tangling branches that hugged at his feet and almost forced him to trip over. He hated to admit, even though Those We Do Not Speak Of didn't exist anymore, even though they were just simply a costume, the fear still lingered in the back of John's mind. After every few steps, and every few seconds, the snapping of sticks in the distance would capture John's attention and send his heart into a frenzy. He ignored it though, swallowing down his nerves and moving on. After all, that's what the British do, they carry on.

After a while John wasn't even sure he was walking strait anymore. Every tree looked the same, and that's all that could be seen. Trees. The forest was so dense that the little sunlight that did creep through the overgrowth would disappear at each gust of wind, and as night time began to fall, John could do nothing but find somewhere to rest and wait until morning. He patted down his pocket, double checking his list of medications were still tucked safely inside. He had a water-bindle slung over his shoulder, bouncing on his hip as he walked, and a small bag of fruit and nuts to keep him going that he held in his hand.

He checked his pocket-watch; Quarter to nine, and the autumn sunlight was slowly creeping over the horizon, painting the forest in a bright orange glow. John hugged his jacket tighter to himself, shrugging off his bindle and slumping down onto the forest flaw. Back against the closest tree, he pulled out a small woolen blanket and enclosed himself around it. He tucked the it under his chin, brought his feet into his chest, and closed his eyes.

What was this all really for? A little girl's life? Lucy, her name was... Of course this was necessary, but the situation was bizarre. One second John was living the simple life in 1883, and the next he was blasted into 2012. John bit his lip, 2012? What was that really like? Did they still have vegetables, tea and sheep? Were things... /Flying/ now? He didn't know what to expect, and to be honest he still wasn't one-hundred percent sure he wasn't dreaming. He was doing this because he had a duty as the village doctor to save lives, he didn't think much of the consequences.

At least for now the forest looked the same.

And as the sun dipped further over the treetops, and the remaining light seeped from the world, John fell into a light sleep - listening to the light woosh's of objects and dreaming about what tomorrow would bring.

Morning was unwelcomed. John was used to waking up enclosed in warmth and comfy on his bed, but that morning he woke with a dreadful back-ache, a nasty taste in his mouth and a loud chorus of birds. He groaned, rubbing his back as he pulled himself up and off of the forest floor. He winced up at the sky, little sunlight streaming through onto his face. John packed up his blanket, folding it tightly, and drank greedily from his bindle before setting off again.

Whoosh.

John paused. What was that noise? He pulled on his bindle, making sure it was secure, and scanned the forest for the noise culprit. The area was silent, no sign of any life form apart from John capable of making such a noise. Whoosh. He froze again, the mid-day sun beating down on his face. What was it? Whoosh. Closer now, getting louder. He glanced around the forest with furrowed eyebrows, not knowing where to go. He wasn't given directions on how to get out of the forest, just to carry on walking until he got to the other side. How was John to know he wasn't walking in circles?

Whoosh whoosh. The sound was new to John, almost like a soft gust of wind that came as fast as it went, and the more John walked towards it, the louder the suspicious noise became. Whoosh.

He stopped abruptly, finally, as in the distance he could see the end of the never-ending trees. The end of the forest. And a grin broke out of John's face, running towards it. In front of John stood a ten-foot tall brick wall, swarming with ivy, and John took no hesitation is starting to climb it.

He hoisted one foot up and dug it into a crevice of the eroded wall, and then followed suit with his hand – entangling it with the ivy. After that, he pulled himself higher, repeating the method with his other hand and foot until he was climbing up and over the wall. He fell to the ground below with a hard thud.

* * *

"Sherlock, will you _please_ wake up!"

Sherlock groaned in response, tucking his head deeper into the corner of the sofa and bringing his legs up into his chest. He childishly placed a cushion over his ear. "Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called again, annoyed now.

Silence settled in the room, followed by the tapping of kitten heels and the rustling of papers. Sherlock could easily sense Mrs Hudson was hiding something, and sneered as he pulled the cushion from his ear and turned to face his landlady. "What is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mrs Hudson replied simply, a smile tugging at her lips. Sherlock didn't believe her for a second.

"I have a case. What is it?" He asked, noticing the odd position of the phone discarded at the table, the way there was a cold, abandoned cup of tea on the kitchen counter and lastly, the way Mrs Hudson was _not _nagging at him for once.

Mrs Hudson dismissed the accusation with a wave of her hand, ignoring his deduction. "It's a lovely day, Sherlock-"

"The case, Mrs Hudson. What is it?" Sherlock demanded, narrowing his eyes as he moved to sit up and glare from the sofa.

"Maybe you should've woken up when I called you then, instead of deliberately ignoring me." The landlady complained with a pout, hands on her hips.

"I wasn't sleeping, I don't sleep. Now what is it?"

Mrs Hudson sighed, "We all have to sleep Sherlock, you're only human." She pointed out.

"No other human has to endure living with this amount of… Brain." Sherlock concluded, "If they did, they wouldn't sleep either."

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the comment. "Like I said, you're only human. You just need to be entertained, Sherlock, that's all. You need a nice case to keep you busy-"

"Tell me!" Sherlock cried childishly, his face desperate.

"That nice inspector from Scotland Yard rang, with the nice hair-"

"Inspector Donovan?" Sherlock frowned at the name, taking an obvious dislike to it.

"That's the one. She told me to tell you that the chief inspector wants you to help out with a case they found this morning. A young chap they found on the outskirts of Brackley Woods." She smiled.

"Brackley Woods? Why there...?" Sherlock thought aloud, raising an eyebrow. He wrapped the covers around himself. "Was he dead?"

"Well, no, but he refuses to tell them where he came from. Apparently he's quite short, dressed head to toe in fancy dress and almost fainted when he saw the police vehicle."

"He was in fancy dress?" Sherlock asked, furrowing an eyebrow. Mrs Hudson shrugged, and Sherlock got up from the sofa and disappeared into the next room. "I'll take it!" He yelled, his voice monotone. "Although it hardly sounds interesting, probably a mild case of amnesia and a slight mental issue." He deduced. He appeared a moment later with a pair of dark, slim-cut trousers and a white fitted shirt.

"Where are they now?" He asked, pulling on his blazer. He walked over to the mirror, tugging at his suit and fixing buttons.

"They took him down to the station, he fell from inside Brackley wall." She declared, polishing the coffee table with a cloth.

"He came from inside the woods? But that thing goes on for miles..." Sherlock frowned.

"Apparently so."

"Well then, Mrs Hudson, don't wait up." Sherlock called, walking to the door with a smirk.

"Wait! Sherlock, I meant to ask… Would you like me to rent out the other spare room upstairs?" Mrs Hudson inquired, turning to face Sherlock with a shy smile. Sherlock stopped abruptly and frowned, "It's you room, Mrs Hudson, why would you need to ask?"

"Well, I've known you for a long time now, Sherlock, and you've never brought anyone home-"

"Why would I need to bring someone home?"

"Oh come on, Sherlock! You know what I mean…" Mrs Hudson giggled, her cheeks flushing slightly.

"I don't need company." Sherlock announced, the tone of his voice detached. Mrs Hudson let out a squeak of disbelief.

"Everyone needs company, Sherlock. Even you." She offered a comforting smile, but Sherlock ignored it and walked out the door. Mrs Hudson called after him, "You can't pretend forever, Sherlock. I know a lonely boy when I see one!"

Sherlock grumbled to himself, descending the stairs two steps at a time.

"Some people were born to die alone, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock called in return, skipping the last step and running out of the door.

Mrs Hudson stared after him with a slight frown and a disapproving look. She shook her head, "That man…" She mumbled, turning her attention back to polishing her mahogany coffee table. "Anyone would think he's in need of a doctor."

* * *

John blinked blindly, overwhelmed by the sudden mass amount of sunlight that overpowered his eyes. He brought a hand to his brow, blocking the sun with the back of his palm and observing his surroundings. Beneath him was a long stretch of grey hardness, which seemed to go on forever. It was incredibly rough against his soft hands, and he could already sense the slow beginnings of the bruising caused to his knee-caps and elbows from the fall.

He pulled himself up to a sitting position, wincing as he did so, and focused on the weird grey surface he was sitting on. It was nothing he'd seen before, sort of like the stone they used for building the cottage's except consistent in colour and material. In the middle of this long stretch of greyness were long white lines, that kept parallel to the edges of the surface.

Either side of the surface was grass, something very common to John. The sky was the same as it was back in Shipton Downs, to John's relief. He honestly didn't know what to expect, giant metal birds in the sky? A purple sky? No sky?

2012… That was a whole one-hundred and nine years ahead of John's time. He collected himself carefully, inspecting his injuries as he did so and brushing down his grazed hands.

Abruptly, a slow hum in the distance appeared, and the hum became louder; So much so that John stopped what he was doing and pricked an ear in the noise's direction, narrowing his eyes. A low wailing followed.

Wh-oo-oo-oo-oo-sh!

A giant object slammed past just centimeters from John's stance, and he flew back, his back hitting the wall hard. His heart slammed into his chest again, the recognizable feeling of fear buzzing uncomfortably in his stomach.

What the bloody hell was that _thing_?

The wailing grew increasing louder, coming from the same direction, and John swallowed nervously as another giant white and blue object pulled to a stop on the ashy grey surface, meters from where he now stood. The wailing halted, and what seemed to be a door-like contraption opened. "Are you alright?"

It was a woman. A normal, _human_ woman. John didn't understand why that was such a huge relief to him. Was he expecting aliens? Surely not. The woman looked average, a normal height with a weird flat-cap mixed with a small top hat styled hat. She wore a simple white shirt, with a weird black rectangular contraption tucked into one of the pockets, and a black body-warmer type coat filled with extra pockets and compartments. Her embodied white, yellow and blue checkers matched the ones printed on the previously moving object. "Are you alright?" She repeated, louder this time.

John blinked. "I- I think so…" He mumbled quietly, not knowing quite what to say. He wasn't alright, not at all, but the women smiled kindly, "Sorry about that, he was speeding. No doubt he couldn't have seen you at that speed, almost knocked you over." She grimaced. "But it seems you're alright."

Another door opened, this time on the opposite side of the object, and an awkward looking young man crawled out with stumble on his chin. "Don't mind him," The women said, noting John's lost expression, "He's just here as my backup. Police policy."

"Police?" John asked, his voice slightly broken.

"Police…" The women repeated, quirking an eyebrow. "Are you from around here?"

"1882." John replied simply, not really thinking. "I mean- ...No."

She smirked as if this whole situation was some sort of mediocre joke, "I meant, where did you come from?"

John kept his mouth shut.

_Rule 1. Never reveal the existence of Shipton Downs. _

After a moment of awkward silence, the woman gave in waiting for a reply. "Do you need a lift anywhere? You're dressed for a party." She smiled. John pouted slightly in response. Did he look stupid to them? Of course he did. Instead of responding with words, John silently pulled out the battered list of medications he needed and passed them over to the woman, who took the list with a raised eyebrow.

She unfolded the crumpled paper, straitening it out carefully. "What's this?" She asked, eyeing the paper. The man behind looked over her shoulder, "It's a list of drugs." He pointed out.

John hesitantly nodded. "There's a girl in my village who's very sick, she was in an accident." He explained quietly, "I need to save her. I'm a doctor."

"You're a doctor?" She asked. John nodded. "If you're a doctor then why don't you get these yourself?"

John frowned, "We don't have them where I'm from…"

"Oh... Right." Silence followed, and the woman copied John's frown. "Do you remember where you're from?"

John said nothing.

"I think you better come with us…" The woman sighed, folding up the list and tucking it into her pocket. "I'm D.I. Donovan, this here is Anderson." She gestured to the man behind. "We'll take you somewhere safe, work out where you came from-"

"No! You don't understand..." John protested, "I need those medications!"

'Donovan' laughed. "We can't just pass them over, we need to know you're a qualified doctor first. They at the very least need to be prescribed and payed for. Do you have any money?" She asked politely. John swallowed, shaking his head. "Then you better come with us." She concluded.


	3. Part Three

Sherlock barged through the door, tugging at the knot of his scarf and sliding it from around his neck. "What's going on?" He asked. The inspectors turned at the new intrusion.

"Oh great, freak show's here." Donoven muttered, rolling her eyes and adverting her attention back to the papers in front of her.

"Don't pretend like you're not thrilled to see me." Sherlock muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Where's Anderson?"

"With the suspect… Or patient, client… Whatever he's classed as."

"Name?"

"John, John Watson."

"Where's he from?"

Donoven cracked a smile, "Oh, you're going to love this. Freak." She sighed, turning to rest against the table and folding her arms over he chest. "He claims he's from 1882."

"1882?" Sherlock frowned somwhat, biting down on his lip. He looking intently at the floor as he began to rack his brain with deductions. "He wearing fancy dress. Why?" He asked.

"What we thought was fancy dress." She corrected, "Turns out, those are his genuine clothes. He looks like someone from… Well, 1882 as it happens." Donoven shrugged, turning back to the papers. "It's hardly a case, just a lost idiot. We don't need your assistance."

Sherlock ignored her and began striding towards the interrogation room. "Sherlock!" She snapped, "Stay out of there!" Sherlock continued, and yet again barged through the doors mid-interrogation.

One thing I've defiantly learned about Sherlock Holmes, is he listens to nobody but himself. At that moment in time, anyway.

For me, it just added to the entertainment.

The first thing Sherlock's eyes landed on was the small desk, with a small lamp placed on the corner providing the only dim light in the room. It coated the walls in a foggy orange glow, illuminating the face of what Sherlock guessed was a man in his early-to-mid-thirties with a washed out face and grey, tired eyes. He was short, although only by a little, and slightly stocky - that Sherlock could tell from a distance. His clothes perfectly resembled those of Victorian times, with slight poor qualities to them. "Farm boy? …No, that pocket watch at least required some amount of wealth..." He was correct with the farm - village seeming more and more relevant. "I'd say, village doctor." Sherlock eyed him curiously, "The material on the clothes isn't synthetic, it's perfectly home-produced in Victorian conditions. Interesting. I'd say around five foot eight, around thirty-three years old. You own sheep." Sherlock concluded, raising an eyebrow.

John's mouth gaped slightly, falling open and then snapping shut. He settled for saying nothing.

"Sherlock!" Anderson yelled in protest, seeming appearing from no where. He stood up, glaring at Sherlock. "I'm in the middle of a questioning." He sneered, "Leave."

"Oh please, this isn't a questioning if he isn't a suspect. Is he guilty of any crime or offense?" Sherlock asked, towering over the shorter man.

"Well, not exactly-"

"No, he's not. Obviously the man's scared and confused-"

"I'm not scared." John butted in, his voice low and gentle - but stern none the less. He sounded confident, surprising Sherlock somewhat.

"...Confused then." Sherlock corrected himself, not bothering to look in John's direction. "He's of no threat the population. I'll take it from here."

"But it's not your job to-"

"Anderson, out. Now."

"You can't tell me to-"

"Anderson." Sherlock glared, looking down at the man with cruel eyes. Anderson frowned, sighed, and began to walk out of the room. Sherlock stood dominantly until the door finally closed, the room swamping into a foggy orange darkness. "Right," Sherlock began, "First things first, we need some light in here." He strode over to the light switch, flicking on the main beam and flooding the small space in bright, glorious light. John recoiled, his pupils narrowing and his face contouring into a look of discomfort. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, this didn't go undetected. "… Less light." Sherlock corrected, turning down the power until it was just a light smog of yellow colour. John's face freshened a little.

"So, you're John Watson." Sherlock stated, beginning to pace the length of the room. John followed with his eyes.

"I am." The man answered. It wasn't a question.

"And you're from…?" Sherlock spun on his heal, turning to face the man. John's face was tired looking, almost stressed. His lips were chapped a little from being over exposed to the cold weather - suggesting to Sherlock that he'd been travelling outside through the night. His cheeks were leathery, yet still looked soft and mouldable. His facial expressions were poignant and each was obvious and different.

John grimaced. "I'm not from around here." He answered, trying to avoid the answer everyone else had laughed at.

"That's not what you told the officers."

"You're not one of them?" John asked, frowning.

"Besides the point." Sherlock snapped, "You told them 1882. Why?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you." John snapped back, growing aggressive. "I just need those drugs-"

"Drugs? As in addict or medication? Wait! Don't answer that, obviously medication. There's not one sign of drug use on you. Why would you need drugs?" Sherlock asked, taking a step closer. John leaned back in the chair, trying to put more distance between the two.

"The girl."

"The girl?"

"Did they not tell you anything?"

"No. They tend not to."

John frowned, "The girl's injured, badly. I need to help her, I'm a doctor."

"A village doctor." Sherlock confirmed.

"Right- …H-How did you know that?" His frown deepened, eying Sherlock curiously.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice John's eyes looked gentle, his hair a dirty blonde - short and unruly.

"I deduce things." Sherlock shrugged, pacing to a stop next to John.

"And you knew about the clothes, that they were genuine…" John began, his curiosity rising.

"Of course they're genuine. You come from 1882."

"That's impossible." John sighed, repeating what everyone else had chanted.

"Except we both know it's not." Sherlock pointed out, offering a sly smile.

"… Who are you?" John asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "How could you tell?"

"Surely it's me who's meant to be asking the questions?" Sherlock pouted.

John folded his arms stubbornly. "I'm not answering anymore bloody questions until you tell me who you are!" He snapped. A moment of silence fell uncomfortably around the room, and Sherlock cracked under the tension.

"Sherlock." He announced.

"Sherlock?" John repeated.

"Sherlock. It's my name." Sherlock frowned somewhat, feeling a little offended. His straitened his fitted jacket, standing taller.

John rolled his eyes. "Right, I got that. It's just… Different."

"My name is different?"

John narrowed his eyes, "Well do you know anyone else named Sherlock?"

"No, but-"

"Well there you go then."

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, his nostril flared. "You're worse than my landlady…" He muttered childishly, a deep frown on his face. John raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft chuckle.

"Your landlady? Hardly an insult."

"You dress weirdly." He continued.

"I'm from 1882." John growled, "You look ridiculous."

"I'm from 2012." Sherlock argued back. "I wear a suit."

"Well, so do I."

"A fitted suit." Sherlock countered. "Yours is all… farmboy-ish."

"… Your accent is weird." John frowned after a second of thinking, he turned his attention back to the table.

"I'm English."

"What?." John frowned.

"I'm a Londoner." Sherlock continued.

"A what?"

Sherlock sighed, ignoring the question. "Obviously, you've been living in a bubble for the last couple of decades. No one can pretend to be such an oblivious fool for this long, and I can't deduce any lying techniques or any sort of reason to why you would lie. So, want to tell me about this magical place in the forest in which you appeared from? I'm guessing some sort of communal village, around a three-hundred odd population, never ventured out of the surrounding woods… Probably due to some sort of fear?"

John sat in shock, his mouth falling ajar. He blinked at Sherlock, trying to clear his throat. "Amazing…" He breathed. "I-I mean, yes. It's a village…"

"Amazing?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Yes, amazing. Is that a surprise to you?"

"It's not the usual reaction, no." He frowned, moving to sit on the chair opposite to John.

"What's the usual reaction?" John asked quizzically.

"'Piss off'."

John released a chuckle and hesitated, "You're the first person who hasn't treated me like a child, or an idiot."

Sherlock smirked. "So far…" He sighed, cocking his head a little to one side. "So, tell me about this village. Who created it? For what reasons? Wait! - … A dislike to city life? A tragedy of some sort?"

John nodded.

"My father told me his brother was murdered in the city. There are similar stories throughout the Elders…" He paused. "They wanted a new life. Only the Elders know, of course. The villagers have no clue. The Elders formed the village and brought up their children just as they would in those days." He shrugged.

"So you all thought you were in 1882, except these 'Elders', and you." Sherlock pointed out, his hands coming together under his chin again as he observed.

"It was 1882 this year, 1881 the year before, 1880 the year before that and so on." John confirmed, "I only found out because we needed to save the girl. My father needed someone younger to make his way through the woods and find help. We've never really dealt with tragedy before, so I think we're adamant we can save her if we move fast… But when I got here I met those people and they brought me strait here."

"So you need these medications fast?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the obvious glare.

"Fast." John agreed, "If she dies…" He sighed, lowering his voice. "It'll be all my fault."

"I won't let that happen."

Now, from above, this was the very moment when I decided I wanted to watch these two. Now, don't get me wrong, I was watching John from the start - an accidental time traveler? That's story writing _gold_. Sherlock just happened to be a bossy consulting detective who just randomly barged into John's questioning that day and resumed it all by himself. But, being dead, I immediately knew that this was the first time in Sherlock's life where he'd offered to do something truly selfless for someone else, and I knew at that moment that this was the start of a long friendship. Of course, I wouldn't of guessed at that time that they'd have ever become more than friends. The looks they gave each other were of hope and new friendship, not romance, but I guess all that surprise is to come.

Anyway, listen to me babbling on… On with the story:

"You won't? So you'll get me the drugs to save her?" John asked quietly, seeing Sherlock a little differently now.

"God no. You have no qualifications, your file is empty. It's basically like you haven't existed in the world until today. No one will freely give you medications so you can prance back to your magical village-"

"It's not magical."

"I know."

"You won't tell anyone about it, will you? They're good people-"

"I won't."

"So… What are you going to do about the girl?" John asked, his brow creasing. "You said you'd help."

"I am." Sherlock reassured, "I'm going to send the medications to the village via the homeless network. They won't tell anyone, and no one will even realize they've gone." He leaned back in the chair, studying John's expression. He offered a small smile.

"'The homeless network'?"

"My private... Assistants."

"Oh…" He returned the smile, "I'll draw you a map or directions or something." He nodded, "Or I'll just show them the way, I need to return sometime."

Sherlock nodded, "And the fear?"

"The what?"

"There must of been something you feared living in the woods, otherwise you'd of all of ventured out of there ages ago." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Wasn't it obvious? "What was it? Big Foot? Some sort of fake mythical horror creature?"

John sighed, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. "It's kind of ridiculous. The Elders made up these… Monsters. Costumes, of course. They didn't have a name, but everybody feared them. They used to kill villagers if we ventured into their woods, and to keep the treaty we'd sacrifice our best meat every Sunday. But… You know, they're just fake."

"You believed they were real." Sherlock stated.

"I knew of nothing else. I was born thinking monsters existed, mutations of other animals..." John shrugged, "You wouldn't understand until you lived it."

"Did they have a name?" Sherlock asked, almost board, tapping a hand on the table.

"Those-we-do-not-speak-of." John admitted, Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Shut up." John snapped, but I watched as the corner of his mouth undoubtedly turned up a little.

* * *

"Did you get anything out of him?" Anderson asked whilst Sherlock slid on his scarf. He patted down his coat, turning to face the inspector.

"Only his life story." Sherlock smiled smugly. Anderson rolled his eyes and walked off into another office. One that didn't include a consulting detective with a big ego. John walked out of the questioning room a moment later, led by Donoven.

"We're going to find him a hotel to stay at tonight, something that doesn't have too much... technology, to scare the boy." She informed Sherlock, walking past. John just followed, eyeing the lights and computers with curiosity.

"_Man_." Sherlock corrected.

"What?" Donoven asked, turning to face Sherlock with a confused expression. John smiled a little from where he stood.

"Man. Not a boy, _man._ For God sakes, you're a professional, don't treat the client like an idiot." Sherlock grumbled, turning towards the door. "He can stay with me, if he wants. One night only. I don't have much in terms of high tech equipment, just a MacBook and a small TV set."

"I don't think we can allow-" Anderson interjected.

"Hush, Anderson. It'll save you both time and money, and my landlady has an extra room. Besides, I can't bare to see you both baby the 'boy' like a lost child any longer." He turned to John, "Get your coat."

"But what about tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow he returns to where he came from. End of story. He's no harm to anyone."

Donoven looked uncomfortable, but decided it was late and she was too tired to argue any further. Besides, she and Anderson had dinner plans. "Just this once." She warned, handing Sherlock the release paperwork.

Sherlock simply scoffed and waltzed out the office, gesturing for the lost doctor to follow.


End file.
